


The Feelings You Have at the Funeral of an (Un)loved One

by honeybun



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Forgiveness?, Funerals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of childhood abuse, confused feelings, maybe not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9556391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun
Summary: Mary Lou had died, and Credence wasn't entirely sure what to think about that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello <3 
> 
> So I've been working on a multi-chapter fic which is coming along, but this little idea sprung forth and it was a nice little distraction to write it. 
> 
> Just to be clear, I'm not excusing the actions of Mary Lou or of any abuser, Credence is going through a process in his head that I believe many victims of abuse go through. He's wary of thinking Mary Lou is all bad, and can't quite accept that as a blanket term for her any longer. His feelings are very mixed up with an obedient love and his contempt too. I hope I handled this okay and that I didn't offend or upset anybody.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ weepingstar xoxox much love

Nothing lasts, Mary Lou had once told him bitterly, when Credence was about ten or so, he'd torn his winter jacket and Mary Lou had to go and find a new one, called him a spoilt child, a wretched boy. He’d had to get used to a permanent draft in the threadbare material he’d got in return, had to shiver and not complain because it was his fault, what he deserved, Mary Lou said. Nothing lasts forever. 

 

When he had left, run away in the middle of the night into the welcoming home and arms of Mr. Graves, he had never looked back. Credence had happily put Mary Lou in a box marked ‘Bad’ and had left it at that. Now, however, she was in another box.

Graves had gently told Credence the night before that Mary Lou had passed away, a heart defect the doctor had told him, quickly slipped away in her sleep, the best way to go, Credence. While Graves couldn’t and wouldn’t find a lick of sympathy within himself for the woman, he certainly held it for Credence. Who had all of a sudden looked exactly like a little boy, small and lost and scared. Graves had sat him down on the couch and waited the inevitable tears out, a hand on the back of Credence’s neck, watching him rock a little and clasp his hands together, small patters of tears the only thing he could hear.

Credence was of course well aware that the woman had abused him, had made his life a living hell for some years, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hold any love for her, or something close to it however strange that might seem. She had, despite her numerous flaws, fed him, taken him in off the streets and clothed him.

Credence had wept, not for what Mary Lou had been - a tyrant, terribly misguided and with a violent prejudice - but what she could have been to him - a mother.

Spending much of the night in the company of Mr. Graves, rubbing his fist into his eyes to stop himself from crying, a silly reaction he was sure Graves would think. Telling Mr. Graves to leave him alone, the older man had heard the shake in his voice, the hesitancy that lay beneath it, and he had stayed.

 

Graves had escorted him to the funeral held in the New Salem church, amongst a crowd of bedraggled and devoted followers who all spoke of what good work Mary Lou did against the evils of the world, what a pure vision she had, an unparalleled devotion. Credence would answer that yes, she had been terribly focused, and yes she was devoted, had tried to comment on how she had fed many tiny mouths while trying to forget that it always came at the price of spreading the Second Salemer's word. He had tried to say that she had kindly taken him in, had tried to forget what exactly it was she’d done when he’d begun to show magic capabilities, how she'd beaten it out of him. Everyone had eyed Mr. Graves warily, a well dressed and evidently wealthy man at a funeral such as this? They didn’t ask questions, Credence told them he was his guardian, the word sticking to his tongue like syrup.

Graves looks around the church, as decrepit as he remembers it, watches the service held for a terrible woman and wonders how such a wonderful boy could have come out this life. He still is in awe of Credence on a daily basis, and being here in the heart of his upbringing makes him a little preoccupied, a little morose. It’s a very simple funeral which mainly consists of lengthy sermons about how to avoid mortal sin to enter the afterlife, how Mary Lou had most definitely done so. Graves thinks of the stripes across his boy’s back, how he’d worked for months with potions and balms and creams and magical doctors to free him from the wounds of his past, thinks that if Mary Lou is anywhere now, it certainly won’t be heaven. He’d written a large cheque anyway, entirely for the boy’s sake and no one else, to pay for the funeral, the church had said they’d use it to further their cause, if that was alright, already having pocketed the cheque. Graves thought about how the Magical Congress would view him if they found he’d contributed to a force trying to destroy him, first hand at that. He’d call it undercover work and tell them to mind their fucking business.

Bringing himself back to the uncomfortable pew he was sitting on during the service, Graves looks over to Credence on his right, head bowed with his fringe falling into his eyes, hands pressed so tightly together his knuckles had turned white. While Graves had wholeheartedly hated the Barebone woman, Credence hadn’t. Graves had tried his very best to not quip that the fact the woman didn’t have a heart was certainly a defect. Certainly stopped himself from shaking Credence and asking how such a terrible woman had carved out a place for herself in his boy’s chest. Jealously hoped he would be able to consecrate himself in Credence’s precious heart just as firmly as she had.

Credence could barely hear the sermons being preached at the time, had probably heard them a million times over, enough for a million lifetimes he hoped. He was sitting in the church, or, the _kind of church kind of home kind of not anything_. Just a building he lived in once, not his home but somewhere he stayed for a time. He knew he had found more to call home in Graves’ house within a few short months than he had ever had here. Mary Lou and her oppressive regime, her love not really _love_ but a chore. He had always thought Mary Lou’s love had been much like a league of empty streets, you could wander along them forever and never encounter her there, or anyone at all. Credence thought of how he hadn’t been sad to leave her, to run away, had thought _'good riddance!’_ at the time, high from his escape. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _fair!_ That she could have mistreated him so badly and still have Credence ping back to place at a moments notice like a particularly worn elastic band.

Credence remembered how when he was a boy she’d tutted at his scraped knees from where he’d been pushed over for spreading God’s word, had put her hand over them and kissed. He remembered her also inflicting such marks on him years later for being late to a meeting she’d brought forward without telling him. He thought how Graves had sent a embracing warmth through his body and healed each and every little ache and pain with just his hands, how he’d been breathless from the relief of every wound, every discomfort, each scar and bad memory.

Credence remembered how she’d let him stay inside for once when he was little because it was raining and he was sick with fever, then the times after where he’d been told a temperature was surely the Devil’s work and to fight it off he must go into the rain and serve God. He thought of how Graves had taken him into his home and asked him never to leave, one night, a little teasingly but with glinting eyes which made Credence suspect he was serious. Credence desperately, desperately tried to think of anything to redeem his kind-of-mother. Justify her somehow to Graves, maybe justify her somehow to God, the fearful and unforgiving God that Mary Lou had told him about, even though he didn’t want to believe anymore, a lifetime habit was hard to kick.

Looking at her new box, a too-small coffin for the formidable woman he knew her to be, not marked _Bad_ but engraved with her name. Mary Lou just wouldn’t seem to settle in Credence’s mind, wouldn’t stay in the Bad box in Credence’s head, wouldn't let him close the lid whatever he did.

Credence felt a strong hand grip his, realising he’d started sniffing a little as the coffin was sprinkled with holy water. Graves held his hand tightly, didn’t say a word, hadn’t said a word against Credence’s non-mother ever since he found out about her death. Hadn’t questioned Credence’s wild swings from hating to loving her, hadn’t scolded him for his erratic behaviour since the other night.

His Graves. Strong and consistent and kind and generous and steadfast. A man who had promised he would never leave him or make him go out in the rain and would even probably kiss his hurts if Credence asked him to.

Several men took Mary Lou away to be buried not far off in a local cemetery, Credence keeps his eyes trained on the box until it reaches the door, and then never looks back, lets the rest of the congregation filter out until it’s just Graves sat next to him, still holding his hand. Graves lets go only to guide Credence’s head to his shoulder and shush him, telling Credence it’s okay to cry, _it's okay, dear boy._

 

Later on, when Graves had swept Credence away from the church, he’d taken him for a walk in the park, along the lake, walking until he found a suitable bench next to the shore. They were both quiet for some time, hearing only the calls of birds around them, an odd few walkers with their children or pets or friends or alone. Credence’s eyes were mostly dry now, he still snuffled from time to time, watching the birds flocking across the lake, landing in an interesting mixture of grace and clumsiness. Some birds were sitting in the skeletons of trees, no leaves left now in late October. Credence, finding his voice again, says to Graves

“She did do one thing right, no matter what you might think,” Credence smiles, the expression a little watery and trembling at the lip.

“Oh, what was that?” Graves asks, intent on indulging his Credence in whatever way he needs at the moment.

“She drove me to you, didn’t she?”

Graves shuffled himself closer to hold an arm around the boy’s shoulders. He hums quietly, a little too delighted to think up a proper sentence, a little touched.

“That she did,” he squeezes Credence’s shoulder in agreement. A pause, “it’s not your fault you know, no one could blame you for leaving her, Credence, you know that don’t you?” Graves whispers to him, fervent, finally giving into say something he’s wanted to for days now, no, since Credence came to him in the dead of night and said he’d finally left, that he was finally free of her.

Credence takes a deep intake of breath, nodding, knowing he hears what Graves says, maybe even believes it. Credence knows there are certain parts of himself that were forged by Mary Lou, knew he didn’t like most of them, but some were okay. His dogged perseverance, to a fault. His loyal devotion, to a fault. His overbearing shyness, certainly to a fault.

“I just don’t know what to do with her, in my head, I mean, she was _bad_ and I know she was never _good_ but now she’s just _dead_ and I just-“ Another deep breath, another shaky exhale, Graves’ arm wrapping securely around him even more.

“She doesn’t need to be anything now, Credence, just let her be, let her go. You're allowed.” Graves feels entirely inadequate, that his words can never be right, never be enough in this moment, desperately wanting to reach out to the boy and with touch alone show him what he means, push his forehead against Credence’s to say he wishes the woman had never marked him, had never made him something he wasn’t, say that he knows he’s brash and uncaring for the woman, of course, but that he’s trying, he’s trying. He wants to brush his lips across Credence’s knuckles to say that he wishes she didn’t take up any space in Credence’s mind or heart or soul because she doesn’t deserve Credence and Credence never deserved _her_. He wants to tell Credence none of this is his fault and he wishes he could shirk the burden from the boy’s shoulders to his own, would be like Atlas carrying the burden of Credence’s love for him instead, would do anything.

“You mean more, I mean… Yes, you mean more to me than she _ever_ did, just so you know.” Credence says, as bold as a mouse about to be caught in the kitchen nibbling on something he shouldn’t. He needs Graves to know that through all this, even though he’s so mixed up and weary and feels like a jigsaw puzzle with none of the pieces in place, wants Graves to know he wouldn’t be anything without Graves, hopes Graves can see that.

“You mean a lot to me, too, sweet boy,” Graves is very daring, bumps his forehead into the side of Credence’s head, know he needs to give it time, give the boy space, but can’t help himself take that small indiscretion.

 

Credence and Graves, his definitely-not-father, but possibly something else, sit together and watch as across the purple sky of late afternoon, a flock of birds leave South for the Winter.

“Where are they going?” Credence asks, happy with Graves’ warm arm around him, the side of his head tingling.

"They’re flying somewhere warmer for the Winter, flying home,” Graves answers.

“And then in the Summer?” Credence frowns, not sure why birds wouldn’t want to experience the Christmas holidays in New York.

"They fly back, find their place again,” Graves looks up at the formation of birds leaving across the lake.

Credence thinks that perhaps he won’t ever understand some things, like migratory birds or his _sort of_ love for Mary Lou, just like he won’t ever understand mathematics and how to tie a double windsor. Instead he thinks that perhaps his returning to Mary Lou wasn’t inevitable like a snapping elastic band, but instead like the birds, like going somewhere out of necessity for warmth, and upon finding none, maybe he would never go back. If he were a bird, Credence thinks, he would always find himself flying back to Graves.

“Shall we go home, too?” Graves asks him, probably hoping Credence isn’t waxing lyrical in his head about migratory birds.

“Yes, please,” Credence answers, happy to be led back, back, back, to his home, Winter or Summer, hot or cold, Graves.

  
_Nothing lasts forever, but that means the bad things won’t last either._

**Author's Note:**

> When you find yourself looking up the flight patterns of migratory birds for fanfiction, that's when you know you've gone too far~ 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed xox


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